Inflammatus et accensus
by frozen-delight
Summary: My entry for the Lets Write Sherlock Challenge: After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then… Set during the case of the Blind Banker after Soo Lin Yao's death at the museum.


**After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…**

**Set during the case of the Blind Banker after Soo Lin Yao's death at the museum.**

As I'm a bit stuck with the latest chapter of my multi-chapter casefic, I thought that I'd take a little break and try something else - something shorter less complicated. So I decided to take part in the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge. Here's the result.

Please note that none of the characters belong to me, though I did take some slight liberties with what we are shown on screen in the series.

Obviously, the title derives from Pergolesi's Stabat Mater. Furthermore, there's a brazen Conrad-quote inside the text for which he hopefully won't come to haunt me.

* * *

_Inflammtus et accensus, per te, virgo, sim defensus in die iudicii._

_Lest I burn, set afire by flames, Virgin, may I be defended by you, on the day of judgement._

_-SHSHSH-_

Sooner or later, Sherlock was going to say something.

Uncomfortably, John glanced at his silent companion. After a fleeting glimpse at his friend's stony profile, illuminated by the streetlamps and shop signs drifting past outside, with every cold, brilliant feature of that immaculate marble face resolutely ignoring him, John immediately looked away again, almost relieved to have been spared. Even if it might only be a brief respite. For Sherlock was going to shoot him down in flames.

After all, two months in the consulting detective's company had been ample of time to convince him that the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath wasn't stingy with handing out insults. Sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes meant being called an idiot on an hourly basis.

Not that John minded. Living in the dazzling orbit of Sherlock Holmes, solving crimes and trading jokes and jibes with him, made him feel alive, invigorated, confident and content. Occasionally having the word idiot thrown carelessly at his head did no harm to that. Especially when he knew very well that it meant nothing worse than that he was merely of average intelligence.

Now, however, it would mean something much, much worse. Because for the first time, John actually deserved the insult.

All the lights flitting past the window as their cab raced through the nightly streets of London seemed like a thousand waggling fingers, thrumming with outrage and accusation, stabbing him hard in the face.

_The horror, the horror,_ they hissed.

Wearily John closed his eyes.

And still Sherlock said nothing.

John had been prepared for Sherlock to mess things up. Of course. Ever since their first case together he knew that his brilliant flatmate was bound to botch things up. Putting critical investigations on hold by wandering off on his own or almost getting killed just because he desperately wanted to prove his cleverness - that was Sherlock's style. Leaving John to clean up after him. Within the first twenty-four hours of their acquaintance John had grasped that this was his part of the job.

Except tonight, he'd failed to follow their unwritten script. For this time, he'd been the one to screw up.

Soo Lin Yao was dead.

_Murder, murder, _the flickering lights outside whispered reproachfully.

Sherlock remained silent.

John squeezed his eyes shut even more firmly, to no avail. He couldn't block out the searing hot wave of guilt in his guts.

No matter how much he'd tried to blame Dimmock for what had happened, stupid, vain DI Dimmock who didn't take the deadly business seriously - deep down he knew that he was only projecting. In return, Dimmock had thrown him one disdainful, almost pitying look which seemed to say that he was entirely aware of what John had done.

_Oh horror, horror_, it whispered again.

Yes, John had been the one to leave the poor girl on her own. It had been a mistake. A mistake that had cost her life. He had been a soldier. He had been in battles. He should have known better than to make such a mistake.

_Liar, liar_, the lights hissed at him.

Oh God, there was no denying it: He _had_ known better. And given the choice, he would make the same mistake again. Willingly, knowingly.

He should have stayed with Soo Lin Yao to protect her. Instead he had run off to help Sherlock, although his job was danger and he therefore had more experience in facing guys with guns than the quiet teapot-enthusiast. Ignoring that Sherlock had far better chances to survive a meeting with Zhi Zhu than the girl, he had raced to his friend's aid. Even the mere flicker of a thought of a life without the consulting detective had been too much to bear.

He might as well have pulled the trigger himself.

And he would have done it – again.

He had made his egotistic, desperate choice because the alternative of losing the man who had helped him rebuilt his life frightened him more than anything else.

What did that make him?

_Murderer, oh horror, murderer, _it murmured from the streets outside.

John pressed his fists into his eyesockets and waited anxiously for Sherlock to break the horrible silence.

Any moment now, his brilliant friend would point out how foolish and wrong John's actions had been. Self-proclaimed sociopath that he was, he would never understand John's motivations. And if by chance he did discover them, there only remained the hope that he wouldn't grasp just how perverse, how confused, how ultimately selfish and petty they were.

John held his breath, waiting for the shoe to drop.

The cab pulled up outside the flat. Without paying any attention to his blogger, Sherlock skipped out of the vehicle, thrust several notes at the driver and hastened inside. John followed him, a dreadful sense of foreboding burning in his chest.

He made a beeline for the kitchen, where he set to the task of making tea. As an Englishman to the core, he still hadn't quite shaken off the superstitious belief that there was nothing that a good cup of tea couldn't solve. Maybe after taking a sip of Earl Grey, this night's horrible business wouldn't seem quite so horrible.

_Horror, horror_, the gurgling water echoed his thoughts.

Once the kettle boiled, he mechanically set to work, automatically preparing two cups, one for himself, one for Sherlock, each in accordance with their individual preferences. Far too soon, the task was completed and John was forced to join his friend in the living room, carrying both cups with him.

Apart from the pleasantly crackling fire silence greeted him. The consulting detective was staring at the dancing flames in the fireplace, seemingly lost in thought, his marble face unreadable. He ignored both John and the tea.

Feeling thrown off balance, John cleared his throat, trying to get his friend's attention. He wanted to get over with it right now, so that he could go to bed and hopefully forget about this disastrous evening.

Unfortunately, Sherlock was the same inconsiderate bastard he'd always been. He refused to notice John's qualms of conscience and the offered cup of tea. He made no move to rebuke John or to ridicule him. Instead, he merely picked up his violin.

Seeing the movement, John winced. The last thing he needed right now was the howling and scratching of his friend torturing the instrument.

But then Sherlock started to play.

For the first time since leaving the museum, John briefly forgot about Soo Lin Yao. He was stunned. He hadn't known that his flatmate was able to play – properly. He had only ever heard him torture the instrument. The idea that Sherlock might actually be able to play hadn't occurred to him. After all, his crazy flatmate didn't sleep in his bed, he used the kitchen as a lab and he stored body parts in the fridge. Why would he do anything else with a violin apart from abusing it?

Now, however, against all expectation, the consulting detective seemed to be caressing the instrument, like a tender mother or a devoted lover, coaxing sounds of rare beauty from the slim wooden casing.

Once John recovered from his first amazement, the thought of the dead Chinese girl returned with full force, almost like a punch in the midriff, making him choke on his tea.

Yes, Sherlock was playing, beautifully so, but the tune was bright, merry, strolling and skipping with the grace and the vigour of a skilled dancer.

A girl had just died and Sherlock didn't give a damn.

_'She died before she could help us crack the code.' _

That was all that Sherlock had said on the subject of her death, back in Dimmock's office. He didn't regret that she was dead, only that she was no longer of any use to their investigation.

John felt hysterical laughter bubble up inside him. Apparently he was the only person in this mad flat to torture himself over the death of this innocent girl. Maybe he really was going mad.

He gasped for breath, desperately trying to fight down the laughter that was scorching his insides and threatening to erupt from him. Somewhere in his throat it cackled, _The horror, the horror, the ha-ha-ha-ha._

He was definitely going mad.

His eyes stung. They were hot and dangerously wet. He took another shaky breath, then another. Suddenly he couldn't fight the flaming giggles inside him any longer. But what emerged was only a dry sob.

He was a mess.

After downing the remains of his tea, John curled himself into a ball on the sofa, hiding his wet face in the cushions, letting Sherlock's merry tune wash over him.

The joyous, dancing notes seemed to hop over his body, a symphony of feather-light little touches, sweet kisses, soft whispers, drowning out the tumultuous noise inside him.

Gradually he felt himself relax. He no longer minded that the music was too happy for the occasion or that Sherlock might not give a damn about Soo Lin Yao's death. The music, appropriate or not, was everything he needed.

There was something caring and life-affirming and hopeful in there that he could hold on to. It was a life belt, bouncing on the waves of his inner turmoil, dragging him upwards into calmer realms of sanity, self-forgiveness and serenity, until he safely reached the shores of Morpheus.

After an hour or two, John awoke. It couldn't have been much later, certainly, because the fire was still ablaze. But sometime during John's nap, Sherlock had stopped playing the violin and had actually discovered the cup of tea that he had left for him.

Currently, the consulting detective was seated in front of John's laptop, rapidly typing away.

When he noticed that John was awake, he remarked excitedly, 'Valuable antiquities, John. Ancient relics of China, purchased on the black market. China's home to a thousand treasures - hidden after Mao's revolution.'

'The Black Lotus is selling them,' John realised.

'Exactly', Sherlock said with a pleased smile and turned back to the screen, typing away at lightning speed.

Right then, John realised that his friend wasn't going to comment on the night's events. He wasn't going to say anything.

It was all fine.

Shaking out his limbs, John joined his friend at the table and bent over the screen to see what he was talking about.

_-SHSHSH-_

Several months later, in the aftermath of an uneventful case, Sherlock and John were seated on the couch, eating Chinese takeaway and watching TV. Or to be exact, John kept switching channels and wolfed down everything within his reach while Sherlock shouted abuse at whatever was featured, refused to touch the carton of Lo Mein that his blogger had ordered for him, and sporadically stole some of John's pork dumplings when the latter was busy with the remote.

Eventually, they came across the transmission of a memorial concert featuring Pergolesi's Stabat Mater in remembrance of some important person or other that had died.

In the centre of a vast, venerable cathedral, two female soloists stood amid a sea of candles, singing, their voices entwining, almost bouncing off each other, a scintillating display of vocal agility.

With shock, John recognised the merry tune that Sherlock had played on the night of Soo Lin Yao's death.

'I never cease to wonder why the Italian composers when trying to express grief and dire suffering developed such light and joyful melodies,' Sherlock remarked casually.

'Really?' John said in astonishment. 'Oh. _Oh!_'

'Well, you'd know nothing of that, you're even more of an idiot where music is concerned. Real music, I mean. Not that imbecilic noise you inflict on your ears,' the consulting detective scoffed. But he was smiling.

'Oh shut up!' John said fondly and elbowed his friend.

He stuffed another pork dumpling into his mouth and zapped again.

* * *

You can listen to the piece here: _www dot youtube dot com dot ?v=9k1h9UqGLLA_

It's not the best recording out there, but one of the best available on Youtube.

Other than that: Thank you for reading. Any kind of feedback is warmly appreciated.


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